


Demands of the Transport

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:25:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John moved back in to 221B last week. He is driving Sherlock to distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demands of the Transport

John is sitting in his chair. His feet are drawn up underneath him and his hair is rumpled, still wet from his shower. He holds a mug of warm tea in his hands and blows absently across the surface, trying to dispel some heat. He is sitting sideways in the chair, leaning over the side table to read the paper so that he doesn’t have to set the tea down. 

Sherlock has been hunched over a particularly finicky experiment all morning. It is at a crucial stage at the moment. It has to boil for exactly three minutes or it will be ruined. Sherlock has been holding the pipette over the burner for eighty-five seconds…

_…the sunlight streaming through the window dances along each strand of John’s blond hair. His robe gapes open in the front as he leans closer to the paper to read a particularly interesting article. His mouth is pressed to the lip of the mug  and his lips are moving as he reads…_

Sherlock realizes a moment too late that one hundred eighty five seconds have passed. “Damn it!” He pushes noisily back from the table and manages to get the boiling pipette into the sink moments before it shatters. John looks up, stunned by the unusual outburst. That look twists something deep in Sherlock’s stomach and he snaps, “It’s fine!” He stomps off to his room and slams the door shut behind him. With the door closed, he crosses to left wall and sinks to the floor. He tucks his shaking hands under his thighs and tries to take deep even breaths. 

_What the hell is wrong with him?_ John has only been back for a week. He needs to keep better control of himself if he wants John to stay this time. He closes his eyes to concentrate on his breathing but his traitorous brain supplies the images he retreated to his room to avoid - John’s chest peeking out beneath his robe, the way his face scrunches, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes as he focuses on a particularly dense article, the shape of John’s mouth as he blows on his tea. _God he missed that man._ The very sound of John’s breathing is enough to make Sherlock’s pulse pound and his mouth dry. Watching John back in 221B going about his familiar morning routine, skin still damp from his shower, wearing nothing but his old robe - that was just unfair. Sherlock had been hard since John entered the kitchen. John had been so close then. Sherlock should have reached out and grabbed him, pulled him onto his lap and kissed him soundly. That would have been a much better morning. 

Sherlock scrubs his face with his hand. The aggressive tenting in his trousers is persistent. Normally, he would just wait it out. Orgasms are typically more mess than they’re worth, but John has him wound so tight that he feels like if he does not get some friction on his cock immediately he will die. _Plus, there can’t be any harm in indulging himself in the privacy of his own room, can there?_ The door connecting his room to the bathroom is ajar, but Sherlock doesn’t dare close it. The scent of mint and honey and John clings to the clouds of steam that fill Sherlock’s nose. With his eyes still closed, he runs his hand across his chest, teasing his nipples through the tight fabric of his shirt. He lets out a small whimper as he scrapes his nails across those sensitive buds. His hand trails lower, dipping just inside the waistband of his trousers.  He squirms in anticipation and hisses with pleasure as he finally wraps a tight fist around his aching erection. He shoves his other fist against his mouth as his thumb sweeps over the leaking head of his cock. A loud gasp snaps his eyes open. 

John’s small, compact body is illuminated in the bathroom doorway. His eyes are locked onto Sherlock’s hand and the desperate needy thrusting of his hips. After a few seconds, John seems to realize what he is doing and mutters a hasty apology. Sherlock’s lust-addled brain races to find the words that will make him stay. Finally he croaks out the only two words left in his mind: “John, _please_.” John’s eyes widen and uncertainty flashes across his face momentarily before he is entering Sherlock’s room. He speaks low and deep as he stalks toward Sherlock. “You are so fucking hot, Sherlock. The way your smooth, pale neck arches every time you tease that sensitive head. Christ! The sound of you moaning as you stroke yourself. So bloody sexy.” John stands in front of him, but instead of reaching out to touch, John sinks onto the floor next to him. Sherlock starts to turn toward him with a questioning look, but John  is already leaning close, whispering in his ear. 

Between John’s hot breath and filthy words, he is so very close already. John can sense his desperation as his hand speeds up and his breathing becomes erratic. “John,” Sherlock whines “Please….. _please_.” He is openly begging, and he doesn’t care. He can feel his release building, ready to crash over him. “Next time, you won’t have to do this yourself. Next time, I am going to take you apart slowly.” John’s own breathing is ragged now. “I am going to use my hands and my mouth and my tongue on every inch of your body until you can’t even remember your own name.” Sherlock’s fist is flying and his face is flushed. His mouth is shaping words that he doesn’t have the breath to give voice to. “And when I’m done taking you apart, Sherlock…” John waits until Sherlock meets his eyes. “after that…I’m going to fuck you so hard that you come screaming my name. Come on, Sherlock. Come for me. Now.” With a choked off cry that may have been an attempt at John’s name, Sherlock feels his orgasm overtake him. His eyes slam shut and he is pulsing over his fingers as his body quakes with pleasure. His fingers and abdomen are sticky but he can’t bring himself to care. He keeps his eyes pressed tightly closed and waits for his breathing to slow. 

Sherlock is startled when it picks up instead. His heart is racing and he can feel tears forming beneath his eyelids. He fights to get his transport back under control, but this is a fight he knows he will lose. The spectacular orgasm and accompanying endorphins are sending him into an emotional tail spin. Instead of opening his eyes, he reaches out toward John. He knows John will understand without needing Sherlock to speak. He has no doubt that John will take his hand and tether him to this reality. His chest runs cold when his hand brushes empty air. His breathing is devolving into flat-out hyperventilation now. He curls onto his side and sobs, muffling the noise with his arm. _This is why I don’t do this. Emotions are messy and unnecessary. I know that John will never feel this way about me. Why do I need to torture myself over it? No. I’ll just put it away, lock it up, and never think of it again. It’s only the demands of the transport after all._

A few minutes later, there is a gentle knock at his door. Sherlock doesn’t answer. He can’t. The door handle twists but the lock holds as John calls for him. “Sherlock? You alright?” Sherlock steels himself to sound as normal as possible. “Fine, John.” John stops trying to force his way into the room but he doesn’t leave. Sherlock practices counting his breaths. _IN - one, two, three, four, five. OUT - one, two, three, four…_

“Please tell me that mess in the sink is not poisonous.” A broken sob tears its way out of Sherlock’s throat. John joking to ease the tension is such a familiar thing that it aches, a physical pain that slices right through Sherlock. He tries to cover the sound with a laugh and responds as succinctly as possible. "No. It should be fine.” John seems to wait for a few more seconds, but Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to say anything else. “Alright. Well, I was thinking of popping in the new Bond film if you want to come out and join me later,” John offers hopefully. Sherlock feels the hope like a flare along his spine. He has to ruthlessly remind himself that John is lonely. He missed Sherlock like a friend - a best friend - but nothing more. The crushing weight of reality presses down on him and he can’t bring himself to respond. He lies on his floor covered in salty tear tracks and his own drying semen as he listens to John hum while he makes tea.


End file.
